


Bravery is Stepping Away

by coldfiredragon



Series: Because You Made Me Brave [5]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Bravery series, Drinking, Eliot and Margo friendship, Eliot is self destructive, F/M, M/M, PTSD, background Qualice, but also taking care of himself first for a change, hints of psychological trauma, my poor boy, post-monster, set early in the timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 15:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20914022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldfiredragon/pseuds/coldfiredragon
Summary: In the wake of the Library's defeat Eliot struggles to find a way to heal, by stepping away from his friends and focusing on himself.





	Bravery is Stepping Away

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere after 'Bravery is Reinventing Yourself' by well before 'Bravery is a Lot of Things'.

There's an apartment in Boston with his name on its lease. Eliot just has to be brave enough to take the last step and actually.... _move_. His shoulders slump, and his eyes close. For a moment, he just stands there basking in the momentary darkness with his shins pressed against the edge of the mattress. When he blinks, nothing has changed. The penthouse bedroom he's occupying is as bare and unassuming as it had been a moment before. 

With a sigh, Eliot dropped his gaze to the laundry basket that sat a few inches from his hip. Between the Beast, being trapped in Fillory, the key quest, being memory wiped, and _the Monster_, there isn't much left that explicitly belongs to him. The few things he'd valued had gotten strewn across worlds throughout the multiple upheavals, and the energy it would take to get them back just doesn't feel worthwhile. A part of him is okay with it. Boston is going to be a fresh start. A new job, a new city, a chance to rebuild himself as a different person. It's daunting, but he's brave enough to embrace the challenge, at least he thinks he is. The fewer things that tie him to... everything, the better. 

His fingers tug a sock free from the basket, and he bundles it with his mate, then drops the pair into the mostly empty duffel bag that sits open alongside the basket. So far, Margo is the only one who knows he's going. It just seems easier. Running away from his problems, this time from his whole fucking life is something of a status quo for him. Starting over is nothing new, but this time it hurts. He'd been looking forward to the might have beens; his whole future had been planned around the might have beens. Too bad he hadn't planned for Alice fucking Quinn. 

The basket is half empty, and his bag half full, when there's a hesitant tap on the bedroom door. Eliot's hands freeze. There hadn't been anyone in the penthouse when he'd started, but now he's about to be caught red-handed in the act of preparing to run. 

“El?” Quentin's voice echoes through the wood; then, the door swings open before Eliot can think to twist the lock with his telekinesis. He's about a second too late because the clasp snaps out with nothing to catch against. “Eliot?” The quiver in Quentin's voice makes Eliot want to throw something because Quentin shouldn't get to sound so shaken over the idea of him leaving. Quentin has everything he could ever want in Alice. It isn't fair for Quentin to expect him to stay, in the same apartment, where the evidence of his failure to embrace his emotions glares back at him. “You're leaving?” The obvious answer is spread out before them. Eliot doesn't have to look. Fifty years of knowing Quentin means he can tell just by the other man's voice how deeply the idea cuts at him. This hurts. Eliot is almost glad that it hurts, which in turn deepens the well of self-loathing that Eliot's been digging for himself. He'd never wanted to hurt Quentin, ever. 

“I found a place.” Eliot doesn't feel too keen on offering Quentin the details. His fingers close around and fold a pair of jeans, which get dropped in the bag as both of them silently wait for the other to make the first move. Eliot almost cries from the awkwardness of it. They had been so close; then somehow, they had let barriers build between them. There had been days when Quentin wouldn't even meet his eyes if Alice was also in the room. Her not being in the apartment is probably the only reason that Quentin is trying to talk to him at all. The truth of it stings. “What do you want, Quentin?” The pair of socks he'd matched get thrown into the bag with more force than they deserved. 

“I just, um, wanted to try to clear the air. We're... you're avoiding me, and you're my best friend, and I hate it.”

“Right.” Eliot drags the word out, using tone to show how little he thinks of that sentiment. “So, just to be clear.” He blinks enough to stop his vision from swimming before turning around. “I'm your best friend, but only when Alice isn't around?”

“What does she have to do with it?” The strain in Quentin's tone is almost laughable. 

“Is she here? Downstairs, right now? Does she know you're speaking to me?”

“I'm allowed to talk to you!” 

“But, you don't.” Eliot does his best to keep all of his emotions out of the words. “You haven't really talked to me for weeks, Quentin.” 

“I don't know how.” The words sound miserable enough that Eliot almost cracks, almost steps close enough to hug him. Then he thinks about the look on Alice's face if she were to see them and doesn't. 

“I need to finish up here.” He murmurs as he turns back to the bed and the miserable spread of his life's possessions. “I'm supposed to start a bar-tending job as soon as I get everything moved. 

“Oh.” The word sounds lost; Quentin sounds lost. Eliot half wishes that he could sweep the smaller man under his arm and take him to Boston with him – make the move a fresh start for both of them. Something that should probably taste bitter floods his mouth, but his brain interprets it as almost sickeningly sweet. The tips of his fingers suddenly itch, and he smooths his hands down the closest pair of jeans. 

“Do you mind?” He asks. The last thing he wants is for Quentin to watch him fight against his mind. Quentin already does enough of that. They need to take care of themselves first, without needing to worry about anyone else. 

“Mind what?” There had been a point when Eliot would have been so fond of Quentin's obtuseness. 

“Leaving.” Eliot murmurs. The word is barely louder than a breath. Behind him, he hears Quentin's sharp intake of air. 

“If that's what you want.” Eliot hears the lock slide as Quentin fixes it, then the door shuts with a quiet snap. The breath Eliot takes in the resulting silence is ragged, and he quickly dumps everything that remains in the basket into his duffel bag. A quick circle around the room strips it of anything remotely personal; then he snaps his hands through the specific motions of the portal he'd designed that will take him from New York to Boston 

The apartment he steps into is empty. The bag drops at his feet, and his steps echo on the polished wooden floors as he walks toward the kitchen to fill his palm with a mouthful of water. It's cold, everything feels cold, and he walks back into the bare living room to sit in the middle of the dark space. After a few minutes, he lets his body slide sideways so his cheek can rest against his bag. He hadn't planned to go to sleep like that, with his body spread across the hardwood and his head pillowed on his duffel bag, but somehow he does. 

When he wakes up again, it's dark, not middle of the night dark, but evening dark. The night's still young, the zipper of his bag has left an indent on his cheek, and he's staring at one of Margo's $650 Jimmy Choo pumps. His eyes skim up the sky-high heel and the skin of her ankle. Margo's arms are crossed over her chest, and she looks none too pleased.

“I love what you've done with the place.” She deadpans as she continues to stare down at him. 

“It's homey. Minimalist. How did you know I left?” Eliot rubs his hand against the spot where the zipper had pressed to his skin as his eyes skate across the bare living room. Dim light panels spread across the floor from the uncovered windows and the crooked box of the mail slot illuminates the pile of take-out menus that someone had shoved through it. 

“Quentin was very drunk when Josh and I got back from our date.” The menus flutter across the floor toward them as Eliot pulls on them with his telekinesis.

“We should order something.” He tells her at the mention of Quentin. The heel of Margo's electric red shoe pins the pile. 

“Are you sure this is what you want, El?”

“I want to put me first, Bambi. I'm allowed to do that.” Margo's fingers gently card through the loose curls of his hair, with a sigh she steps out of the heels then drops to sit beside him. Her hand is small and warm against his face. 

“I just want you to be happy, Baby.” She murmurs. 

“I don't think I'm allowed to have happy.” The words bring to mind all the homes he's lost over the years. It reminds him of how tainted the 'Happy Place' had made the cottage, of how Fillory rejected him after it had become his home, and of the mosaic. That was what he wanted back the most – the stupid little house and the lifetime of possessions associated with settling in one place. He wants a place where everything is soaked with memories, fuck he wants his family back! He'd let his chance to have that again slip through his fingers like it was sand, unknowing that it was taking his opportunity for happiness with it. He hates himself with every fiber of his being for ruining things with Quentin, for giving Alice the window to slip back in Quentin's life. 

“That's bullshit, Eliot!” 

“Can we not do this?” Eliot picks up the Chinese menu on the top of the pile, then digs out his phone. “Order for both of us.” He murmurs as he presses both into Bambi's hold. 

“You don't even have furniture in here yet, El.” 

“Then, I guess that's an adventure for tomorrow.” Eliot digs his flask from the pocket of his bag, screws away the cap with his powers, and tips it against his lips for a liberal swallow. “We'll just make due tonight unless Josh is expecting you back. You don't have to stay.” One mistake he won't let Margo make is to take her new relationship for granted. She needs to savor every fucking second of it, even if Hoberman doesn't deserve her. With a sigh, he stretches with his back flat to the floor, and his gaze fixed on the shadows drawn by the ceiling fan blades. 

“I can stay.” Margo's thumb brushes at the corner of his eye. 

“Only if you want, Bambi. I'm not trying to sink us both.” His friendship with Quentin feels dead in the water at the moment, which in turn makes the one with Margo all the more precious.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are love! How do you feel about me jumping around in the timeline of this universe? Do you want to see more of the early stuff, or more of the parts after Quentin and Eliot have started to repair their relationship?


End file.
